The Shoot-Up
by LilMizAmbrose
Summary: Brock Lesnar put together a plan to win over the entirety of WWE. Rule it. Make it his. His plan? Artificially enhancing his performance in the ring. A group of fellow superstars knows what's up and will stop him... But Lesnar's got everything under his control. Absolutely everything. (Brief Warning: Mentions of drug usage throughout all the story)
1. Chapter 1: Dirtiest Secret of Them All

Chapter 1: Dirtiest Secret of Them All

There's a lot going on behind the scenes of WWE. Always. At all times. There's some secret that the outside universe doesn't know about. TMZ gets _really_ interested. But even they aren't always right one hundred percent of the time.

Some secrets are so well hidden that no one knows about it. They happen, they pass, and no one talks about it. Ever. That's why they're secrets.

Which is exactly how his manager intends for this to go over.

Brock Lesnar stands in his dressing room before the show, blue rubber tourniquet wrapped tightly around his bicep, held taut between his teeth. His vein protrudes his skin, making it that much easier to access. Perfect for what he's about to do. That's what he needs.

With his free hand, Lesnar picks up the needle, filled with an amber liquid... Had to prepare the supplies before he tied his arm up. Wouldn't have the hands he needed to do it. Preparing himself mentally, breathing in and putting his hand into a fist, Lesnar sticks himself in the vein with the needle.

It hurts a little. He grunts with the sudden pinch and the sting in his veins. Slowly, he spats the tourniquet out of his mouth to loosen it, and opens up his fist. _Damn,_ this hurts a little. But he grits his teeth and breathes through it. He places a cotton ball on the needle, and slowly pulls it out of his arm, setting it aside so he won't step on it on or something. Fastening it there with a band-aid to stop the bleeding, Lesnar breathes out all the tension, and simply sits back.

That's all he's gotta do. Once the sting's gone, he can get rid of the needle, cover up the dirtiest secret in all of WWE. And he's getting exactly what he wants out of it.

He's totally prepared for the match against AJ Styles later tonight.

Mostly because there's no way for him to lose.


	2. Chapter 2: Blacks and Blues

Chapter 2: Blacks and Blues

The second AJ Styles comes out of his dressing room after his match with Brock Lesnar, Braun Strowman, Big Cass and Finn Bálor are waiting directly outside his door. A certain look immediately comes upon their faces. Styles doesn't ask why; he expected it.

"Damn," Bálor mutters, scratching his eyebrow. "It's just as bad as it looked on the screen..."

"Dude," Strowman adds, an unusual, shocked look coming to his face. "Doesn't that hurt? You want to get some ice for that?"

Styles sighs. He knew it was going to be bad. He knew it the minute he got to his locker room and couldn't even open his eyes and see himself in the mirror. In addition to his two completely swollen black eyes, Styles has a bloody nose, fat lip, and several blacks and blues all over his face. Lesnar did him a number. If someone didn't know any better, they'd think that Styles got into a tussle with a dump truck. It surely didn't help his pride that he ended up losing the match, either.

"Yeah. We can get some ice," he agrees, joining his buddies and beginning to walk down the hall to get some ice from the vending machine. Ice will probably make everything feel a bit better. Hell, maybe he'll be able to open his eyes at least a little if he puts some ice on his face.

Cass still can't help but peer down at Styles' battered face, which isn't hard, seeing as he towers over the smaller man. "Aw man, you sure you okay?" he asks. "How'd you let Lesnar beat down on you so hard like that? He's never done that to you before, has he?"

Styles uses a soft knuckle to wipe the blood from under his nose. "Don't think so," he says, voice still dazed from the match. "Don't think he's done that to _anyone._ It was kind of like he didn't have any mercy, either. Even Lesnar usually doesn't act like he's really trying to hurt anyone." He shrugs. "I dunno, man. He was pumped, like he always is... Just maybe, a little more pumped than usual. Maybe even angry. I couldn't tell."

Bálor raises an eyebrow. "Weird. You do anything to make him mad?" he asks.

Styles shakes his head. "Haven't talked to him since the match. Didn't say a word to him during the match either," he says.

"Really weird," Bálor reiterates. "Couldn't have been you, then. Maybe someone else pissed him off before the match and he took it out on you. That kind of sounds like something Lesnar would do."

Strowman nods with thought. "Sounds about right," he says. "I'd do that too."

Styles chuckles. "Ah well. It doesn't matter much. I'll be fine," he insists. "Just some ice and some tylenol and I'll be good as new in a few days."

At the ice vending machine, Strowman gets together a plastic bag of ice, handing it to Styles. "Here. Put this on your destroyed face," he says, giving Styles' hair a vicious ruffle.

"Hey, you have to be gentle with him," Cass reminds Strowman, giving him a push at the shoulder. "He's injured."

Styles just laughs, pressing the ice against his swollen face. _Ahh,_ a lot better now. Feels good, now that the pain's being numbed a bit. "Don't worry about me," he reassures his friends. "I took a beating, but I'm still standing, and I definitely can still take some roughing around."

Bálor pats his friend on the shoulder. "That's our boy," he chuckles, as the crew continues down the hall and out to the parking lot. Perhaps they'll get a few drinks, cheer Styles up a bit.


	3. Chapter 3: Shield Against Sickness

Chapter 3: Shield Against Sickness

Being sick with the flu sucked, and it feels awesome to be back after feeling like hell for the past couple of weeks. Roman Reigns missed being in the ring with his buddies, and as awful as he felt, unable to do anything but sleep, he couldn't wait to get back in the ring as the RAW Champion.

Now that everything's been cleared up, and he got all the rest and medicine he needed to get better, he's feeling well enough to get back into the swing of things. Today's his first day back, but before he can really get fighting again, he needs his flu shot. Just to make sure he won't get sick again, and to keep it from spreading any further to the other superstars.

Before tonight's practice, Reigns takes a walk to the medical office in the gym to get his shot before he gets back to fighting. For emotional support, he's bringing Dean Ambrose with him. Of course, it won't be that bad - Reigns isn't all too afraid of needles - but it'll be good to have Ambrose there to distract him for the few seconds it's going on.

Walking down the hall, Ambrose pats Reigns' shoulders. "It's good to have you back here, buddy," he says. "We missed you."

Reigns chuckles. "I missed you guys too," he says. "Glad to be back. Mostly 'cause the entire time I was sick, I felt like I was dying."

Both superstars laugh, as Ambrose gives him a nudge. "Well, don't worry 'bout that anymore," he reassures his buddy. "You're gettin' the shield against getting sick like that again this flu season."

Reigns rolls his eyes, but he still laughs. "Don't remind me, bro."

When they're in the office, the male nurse by the name of Stephen nods softly as a greeting. "Good to see you back, Mr. Reigns," he says. "Have a seat. This won't take more than a minute or two."

Reigns nods. "Absolutely," he agrees. As instructed, he sits down on the chair provided for him, and Ambrose sits down on the nurse's stool, pushing himself over to Reigns' side with a nudge of his sneakers against the floor.

"Ready?" Ambrose asks with a smirk, leaning his head back into his buddy's lap so he can look straight at his face.

Reigns just chuckles, giving his hair a ruffle and pushing him to sit back up. "Of course I am, you nutcase," he says.

The nurse puts on a pair of sheer, white gloves, and proceeds to clean off a spot on Reign's tattooed arm, where he'll be injecting the needle into. "Right, Mr. Reigns. There'll be a quick pinch in this spot right here," he warns him.

Ambrose knows now that he's got a job to do, so he talks to Reigns about something completely different. Something to distract him from the slight pain. "So, dude. You thought about who you want to defend the championship against at TLC?" he asks Reigns.

Thoughtfully, Reigns averts his eyes towards the ceiling, pursing his lips. "Dang. That's a tough one," he says. "Maybe against Bálor? He definitely deserves a shot at it. He's a champ already, considering his talent."

"That'd be a good choice," Ambrose agrees. "He does deserve a shot at the title - he hasn't had one in a while." He smirks. " _Or_ , you've got a choice over here: your own brother, amiright?" He raises an eyebrow.

That gives Reigns a laugh. "Oh, please. You'll get your turn when I say you get your turn. Maybe I'll give it to Bálor for free and make you fight him off for it." All of a sudden, there's a slight pain in Reigns' arm: a quick pinch, followed by another sharp sting. It isn't too bad; just makes Reigns close his eyes briefly and mutter a soft, "Ouch..."

"There you are, Mr. Reigns," Stephen says, withdrawing the needle from his arm and placing a cotton ball over the injection wound for a few seconds to clot off any bleeding. "All done. You barely even noticed. Just as brave as they say you aren't, huh?"

Regaining himself momentarily, Reigns chuckles. "Yeah, that wasn't so bad," he agrees.

Ambrose smiles and ruffles up Reigns' black locks. "Champ. You did better than I would have," he says. That just makes Reigns laugh even more, knowing how bad Ambrose's White Coat Syndrome can get sometimes.

Stephen places a band-aid over the injection wound, and gives Reigns a pat on the shoulder. "That arm might be sore for a few days - just take it easy on that wrestling for me, okay?" he says. "Take care of yourself."

Reigns nods, standing up from his seat. "Hey, thanks, Stephen," he says.

With that said and done, Reigns and Ambrose head back outside to take a walk back to the gym before practice gets started. Breathing out heavily, Reigns grabs his bad arm with his other, and stretches it out a little. "Oof. Feeling that soreness already," he winces. "Doesn't hurt as much when you get it... Pain mostly comes afterwards. It's weird."

Ambrose smiles that sinister grin of his, holding up his fists in a combat position. "What if I punched ya?" he threatens playfully.

Reigns just gives him a shove, playing along with his buddy. "Don't. I'll kick your ass," he warns him. Though, he breathes off the soreness in his arm, letting it swing free to get the blood pumping. "Can't wait for practice; gonna be fun to work off all that drowsiness I was feeling." An idea suddenly comes to him. "Oh! Maybe we can grab Bálor and Rollins and grab some Mexican after practice."

"Yeah, that sounds like a good idea," Ambrose says. "I could go for an empanada or two right now."

Along their walk on the streets between the medical office and the athletics center, Reigns and Ambrose meet an unexpected figure. Someone hanging out by his truck, rather than getting ready for practice like everyone else. He's never one to lollygag when he knows practice is just about to start.

Brock Lesnar.

Shocked by his unusual sighting, Reigns and Ambrose can't help but stare at him in confusion. And of course, Lesnar stares them right down... He looks aggravated with him, like he might when he's acting in the ring. His cloudy blue eyes hold weights of aggression, like a wolf hunting down a helpless mouse... Hard and ice cold with no mercy. And when Reigns and Ambrose don't look away, he snaps at that mouse.

" _What?"_ he snarls, curling his lip.

Immediately, Ambrose holds up his hands. "Nothing, bro, nothing," he meekly reassures their coworker. "Continue on, we're not even here." With that, Ambrose and Reigns quickly continue on their way, leaving Lesnar in the dust.

Once he's out of earshot, Ambrose knits his eyebrows. "What crawled in his briefs?" he asks.

Reigns shrugs. "I haven't the slightest idea," he says. "All I heard is that he went completely psycho on Styles in the ring the other night. As in, _actually_ psycho. No holding back or anything. It was unlike any wrestler, even for Lesnar."

Ambrose shrugs, kicking a used, emptied syringe in the middle of the road off to the side so no one will step on it. "Who the hell knows, man? Maybe he's been drinking too much, lately," he suggests. "He'll probably snap out of it. Just stress getting the best of him, I bet. He'll come down."


	4. Chapter 4: Accusatory

Chapter 4: Accusatory

Maybe it was just a select few superstars that noticed. Because of that, no one wants to seem to bring it up to any of the higher-ups, perhaps because it's nothing. They don't want to create a scene out of nothing, especially if there's nothing to create a scene out of.

But nothing can stop them from talking about what they think.

After their tag-team match against The Bar, Bálor and Strowman walk back to their dressing rooms, they find themselves having a chat. Bálor started by turning to his buddy and asking, "Is it just me, or does Lesnar seem to be a _lot_ more vicious than he usually is?" he asks.

Strowman slowly shakes his head. "Nah, that's definitely not just you. I see it too," he says. "I mean, nothing wrong with getting aggressive, that's all in good fun. What's a fight with no aggression? but he's... Taking it too far."

"A bit too far," Bálor says softly. "No one's ever bludgeoned someone that bad on purpose before. Not without something leading up to it. It's not even just in the ring, either." Considering Strowman's a bit high-up for Bálor to lean in, he just begins to walk a little closer to his side to lessen the gap between them. "I heard something from Reigns and Ambrose the other night. You notice how he was missing just before practice, right? I guess he was hanging out by his truck rather than getting ready. When was the last time he was MIA before practice?"

Strowman nods slowly. "Yeah, you got a point there," he mutters. "Bit suspicious. Beating the teeth out of AJ then hanging out in a back alleyway. Not like he's with anyone, either. The hell's up with the guy?" He bites his lip, thinking very carefully about what he's gonna say before he goes ahead and says it. "Maybe this is definitely just me, but... Does he look a little _bigger_ than he normally does too?" He finds himself turning a little red. "I mean, I'm used to most of my opponents being a lot smaller than me... That's just my natural size. You know that, you're one of the smaller guys. But when I stand near Lesnar lately... It's like he's almost equal in size to me. Only, what he lacks in my height, he makes up for in muscles. He's like, five times more jacked than usual."

Bálor breathes out with relief. "Thank God. I thought I was the only one," he says. "I saw it too. He makes me nervous because of that. Maybe it's where he got the strength to do that to AJ... The guts to do it to him and not have mercy. Just look at AJ - he's still recovering." He shrugs. "I know Lesnar usually wouldn't have it in his heart to hurt someone like that normally. Why would he do it if he knew he got stronger? It must be a publicity thing." Looking back at Strowman, he sighs softly. "I hope he'll get over it and stop beating the fluff out of people."

Again, Strowman nods. "Me too. Could get him in trouble."

Out of nowhere, there's the slam of a door. I startles the two wrestlers, especially since they thought they were totally alone. But it doesn't surprise them as much as the loud, booming voice that follows.

"Well! I thought I was listening to a couple of Divas out here with all this gossip," the voice says. "Now, I'm interested. Tell me, what were you saying about Brock Lesnar?"

Bálor and Strowman turn around, and find themselves face-to-face with Paul Heyman. Lesnar's manager. For a minute, they freeze, unsure of how to deal with this. _Well, that's a bit creepy. Why does he have ears in this hall?_

Eventually, Bálor is the first to speak up. "No one was _gossiping,_ as you so put it," he says. "We're just pointing out things that are simply true." He then narrows his eyes at Heyman, bulking himself up. "Anyways. Now that you know, are you even aware of this? Have you even _spoken_ to your loyal client about what he did to Styles? Why'd he do it? Or are you just oblivious to the fact that he's doing it and you're just letting this happen?"

Sharply, Heyman holds up a hand. "That'll be enough questions. The business I conduct with Brock Lesnar will be none of your business," he tells them both. "All I can say is that there is absolutely nothing going on. Anything you _think_ might be going on is all in your head." He then walks up to Strowman, almost touching chests with him. He's expressionless for a few moments, but then he smirks up at him. "Lesnar seems a bit more muscular than usual, does he?" he challenges Strowman, giving him a punch to the gut.

Strowman boils on the inside, but stays steady, tightening his abs so he feels no pain.

"Now, that, Strowman, my good sir, is what most would call _working out,"_ Heyman continues. "When you've got the energy your body needs to build up more, well, you can work out. And you gain more muscle." He then looks Strowman up and down slowly. "Allow me to compliment on your own new build. But you've got all the muscle you can produce already. Still, I noticed you look a bit _heftier_ than normal yourself. Now, why might that be, Strowman?" Again, he gives Strowman another punch. This one was a bit more unexpected, and he lets out a grunt as he gives way to the hit.

Pissed, Strowman glares down at the manager in front of him. "That's not how that works, Heyman," he snarls.

Again, Bálor pipes up. "Hey, I don't know what you're implying here, but it's wrong on all accounts," he says sharply. "Strowman could certainly gain more muscle from working out. Are you calling my friend here a wimp?" While Strowman does show a bold, aggressive, vicious personality in the ring, he really has a rather soft inside, though, no one ever really sees it except for his group of close friends in the WWE. Paul Heyman should never be allowed to see it.

Heyman just laughs manically, turning to look Bálor dead in the eye. "Funny you spoke up," he says. "I was just about to get to you, Mr. Bálor. Your body is no acception." He puts on a mocking facial expression, crossing his arms over his chest. "You are a small man. Anyone with eyes can see that. Five-eleven. You are one of the smallest wrestlers there is." He points to Bálor's arms, tensely rested at his sides. "Your muscles there... They're almost too good to be true for someone as _short_ a man as you. Think about it: other men like you are usually scrawny. All skin and bones, aren't they? It's almost like you're blessed with the muscles you have. Or maybe you... Perhaps fixed your own body so you can have the muscles of a WWE superstar? That's what a desperate skinny man would do, isn't it?"

Bálor clenches his fists at his side, grinds his jaw, and his face turns bright red as he begins fuming visibly. "Did you just suggest I use enhancements?" he growls. " _Steroids?_ Is _that_ what you just suggested?" He reaches forward to grab onto Heyman's tie to choke him to death for accusing him the way he just did. " _What in the bloody hell makes you think like that?_ I would _never_ use steroids - my muscles are more natural than your airhead of a client could ever hope for."

Heyman just chuckles evilly, grabbing Bálor by the shoulders and pushing him - full-force - right onto the floor. "Listen. I've got my way of knowing these things," he berates Bálor. "And when I know something like that, I'm always right about it. In which case, my client's muscles are far more real than yours. _Little man."_

Helpless, Bálor collapses and skids a few good feet across the floor. Though he's still unspeakably angry, all he can do is pick his head up to shoot a death glare at Heyman, seething like a pissed-off bull. He opens his mouth to yell, then closes it when nothing comes out... Opens it back up... Then closes it again when he realizes he doesn't have anything to say. And he keeps it closed.

"Shit!" Strowman yells. He runs over and joins Bálor on the floor, making sure his friend is okay. Even if Bálor seems uninjured, he still picks him up and puts his head in his lap, placing a cold hand over his forehead to help cool him off, seeing as he's still heaving with rage, even trembling slightly, skin starting to heat up slightly.

Immediately, Strowman turns towards Heyman, pointing with threatening intentions in Heyman's direction. "You do not have the balls to mess with Bálor again," he snarls. "I will fuck your shit up if you try me, Paul Heyman. I'll pound the shit out of you the way your client did to Styles, but ten times worse. Lay off of Bálor - you were the one attacking him for no good-ass reason."

Heyman just laughs to himself, slowly walking backwards down the hall. "Right. But that's because _my client_ isn't a monstrous human being like you are," he says. "Now, do yourselves a favor: don't try to wander into subjects that you have no business in, okay? Let me explain something: the business that goes on between Lesnar and I? You don't need to know a damn thing about. If I find out that you haven't listened to a word I just said and you're still snooping around, the two of you and those friends of yours?" He nods as a warning. "You'll all find yourselves in a mess that no one's gonna want to be in."

With that, Heyman turns and walks down the hall without another word from anyone. All Bálor and Strowman can do is look at each other in suspicion.

Neither of them have any idea what that threat meant.

But it's clear now that Lesnar's hiding something.


	5. Chapter 5: Non-Prescription

Chapter 5: Non-Prescription

"Dude, I still can't believe we're doing this. I'm panicking, you just can't see it."

"Well, you're curious, aren't you? You want to know what Lesnar and Heyman are hiding, right?"

"Hell yeah. It'll kill me until we figure out what the hell he meant when he said that to you and Bálor."

"Then this is how we find out. It's the only way."

"Shhh... Don't want Heyman to hear us. 'Sides, I can't hear the door click if you two are yakking."

Naturally, the group trying to solve the Lesnar mystery got together after Heyman verbally attacked Strowman and Bálor: the two of them were joined by Big Cass, AJ Styles, Roman Reigns and Dean Ambrose, and they let everyone know about the things he said about the two of their bodies. Cass pointed out that it seemed like he was trying to deflect something off of Lesnar. This, paired with the fact that Reigns and Ambrose found Lesnar in the back lot a couple nights ago, really made things suspicious.

It's Friday night: no practice. But Strowman, Styles and Cass find themselves back at the gym, which is completely empty. They walk themselves to Lesnar's locker room, Styles with a secret device on hand: a tiny, thin, but trusty little hairpin he borrowed from Charlotte Flair. Now, he crouches below the door handle with an ear pressed against the door, digging around inside the keyhole with the pin, trying to pick it the right way to unlock it, while Strowman and Cass stand above him, looking down the halls in case someone unexpected shows up to find them doing this.

"Are you almost done?" Cass whispers down at Styles. "I feel like we're being watched. I know no one's here, but you never really know..."

"Quit panicking, Will," Strowman reassures him. "We're fine. We came tonight for a reason. Besides, once we're in, we can close the door, and no one will even know we were here until we leave."

" _Shhh,"_ Styles reminds them. "I think I've almost got it. Just stay quiet and make sure there's _really_ no one here."

They give Styles his wish, and continue to do their job, the halls completely, eerily quiet except for the buzzing of the heating and cooling systems.

Finally, some peace comes to everyone when Styles perks up. "Got it," he says with a smile.

Excited and anxious at the same time, the three superstars scurry into Lesnar's locker room, and shut the door behind them, just in case anyone wanders by and sees them digging through his stuff.

This is it. They can dig through Lesnar's things, uninterrupted, to figure out what he's been doing. Why he's been acting the way he is. And once they've got it, they can report back to the others.

"Where are we support to start, even?" Cass mutters. "How do we know he didn't take everything he owns with him?"

Styles shrugs. "We don't," he says. "I guess we just scour through the drawers and cabinets and stuff until something comes up."

Strowman nods. "Sounds good," he says, and with that, begins to tear through the cabinets above the counter, knocking down an endless supply of deodorant and cologne.

Styles and Cass join him, trying to avoid the avalanche of musky-smelling products. Styles begins to claw through the drawers, and Cass searches the shelves above the mirror. He doesn't even need a stool to do it, of course.

Even still, they're not having much luck. The cabinets only seem to have Lesnar's extra shampoo and shower supplies of the like. The drawers have medical supplies, like an unusually large supply of things like cotton balls, band-aids, and gauze wrap. Suppose there's really no such thing as too much of it in a wrestling career.

It isn't until Cass swipes something down that no one noticed before, not even him. It was tucked so far into the corner that it was easily glossed over. Nobody would ever see it, not unless they were looking for it.

Lesnar's duffle bag. The one he carries his sneakers in for practice. Every superstar has seen him with it at one point or another - everyone has their gym bags to keep their workout clothes in when they're not using them.

Question is: why wouldn't he bring it with him? Surely he has clothes to wash in it. Maybe he needs his athletic shoes to take a run or something. All in all, it just seems weird that he would leave something like this in his locker room.

Grabbing the strap, Cass pulls it down, and swings it back and forth for Strowman and Styles to see it. "Hey guys. I just hit the jackpot," he purrs.

Strowman and Styles turn their head sharply to look at what Cass found. Both of them lose interest in the drawers and cabinets, and immediately come over to see what he has. Immediately, they swell with excitement.

"Interesting," Styles says with an interested smile. "Don't people usually take these with them?"

"That's what I thought too," Cass says, eye narrowed. "Everyone's got their dufflebag with them." He then averts his eyes towards the spot he found it in. "And what's it doing up there? Wouldn't it be sitting on a chair?" He shrugs. "I know I'd see it. But other superstars would forget it. Bayley's so scatterbrained she'd be halfway down the street before she realized she forgot her bag on top of the cabinet. So why'd Lesnar leave it up there?"

"I don't know, dude," Styles mutter. "It's probably because there's something in it that he can't be carrying around in public."

"Well, let's tear this thing open!" Strowman says. "We won't find that shit out until we open the bag!"

Styles and Cass takes a step back while Strowman viciously unzips the bag, and exposes the contents to the three of them standing there, nearly spilling out over the sides.

The three of them are appalled at what's in it.

Inside of Brock Lesnar's bag are a bunch of drug tests. Not official ones given to him by the WWE medics. These are store-bought ones, likely ones that Paul Heyman picked up at the nearest Walmart before practice. They're not cheap ones, either; they've got everything - the test sticks, the cups for Lesnar to urinate in, the color chart.

Every single one of them is failed, by a whole landslide.

The reason why? It's obvious. It's right there in the bag.

There's a whole supply of syringes and needles tucked in beside the drug test kits. With it, there's a rubber tourniquet — blue in color — a box of band-aids, package of cotton balls, and at least five vials of a light amber liquid.

All anyone can do for a good while is just stare in shock.

The first to break the silence is Styles. "Holy shit," he mutters. "Lesnar's been shooting up."

Strowman points at the bottles. "What is that, anyways?" he asks. "Heroine or some shit?"

Big Cass picks one of them up, holding it between his thumb and index finger, holding it up to the light. "Nah. That's steroids," he says, pointing to the label. "Says it here. _Anabolic-Androgenic Steroids. Non-prescription."_ Cass shakes his head. "Let's just say Lesnar isn't being treated for kidney disease."

Strowman growls. "That son of a bitch. Everything makes sense," he realizes. "Heyman blaming me and Bálor for using steroids... Get the attention off of Lesnar. Why Styles is still barely healed from his epic beatdown... Lesnar's hyped up on testosterone and is all swelled up."

Styles takes in a shaky breath. "What do we do?" he asks. "I mean, who are we supposed to tell about this?"

No one has the chance to do anything or make any sort of suggestion.

The locker room door opens sharply, and everyone looks up sharply.


	6. Chapter 6: Weekend Stress

Chapter 6: Weekend Stress

As many stars might find themselves spending their Friday night, Reigns and Bálor join Charlotte Flair for Chinese. A nice, calm way to kick off the weekend, and catch a break from worrying about Lesnar. Of course, Charlotte herself hasn't had any firsthand experience with what's going on with Lesnar, but she's heard some of the rumors, and she's fairly curious about it all.

She grins softly as she watches Reigns give his bicep a brief massage. Must be some leftover soreness from his shot the other day. Those are always a bit sore after the fact, especially for someone like Reigns, who's got a lot of muscle.

"How's the arm feeling?" she asks with a gentle laugh.

Reigns smiles, rotating his shoulder to get the blood moving. "Still a bit sore. Nuufaulo's been using that as a secret weapon; he's been bending it more than I can take just to throw me for a loop," he says. "Much better than being sick, I'll admit."

Charlotte twirls a long strand of his jet black locks around her finger. "Well, it's good that you're getting better," she says. "We needed you back desperately; things don't feel complete without you."

Bálor grabs a pair of chopsticks from the table, pinching them together. "You said it. Our posse's all back together now," he purrs, grinning softly. "And we're crushin' it. Always up for a challenge, always up for a fight." He looks up sharply, that smug look leaving his eyes, becoming replaced with one of pure innocence. "Crushin' that Lesnar mystery, anyways. That's a challenge itself, no fighting needed."

Charlotte nods, knitting her eyebrows. "That is true, Reigns. You came back just in time for that whole Lesnar problem," she points out. "What have you found out about it? I've thought about it, but I can't say I'm right until I know about what's going on. If anyone would know, it'd be you two."

Reigns breathes out softly. "Well, you heard about Lesnar beating the living shit out of AJ Styles. There's that," he says. "Then Ambrose and I found Lesnar in the back alley by his truck... And some random needle discarded nearby. Definitely wasn't from the clinic... It isn't like there was a flu clinic going on."

Bálor nods eagerly. "Strowman and I were caught talking about it by Heyman," he adds. "And he immediately started making these weird accusations about Strowman and I... That we use steroids. He said that Strowman looked bigger than usual, and that I shouldn't have the muscles I do with my body type."

Charlotte sighs. "It all matches up with what I saw, too," she says somberly.

Reigns raises an eyebrow. "You saw something?" he questions.

She nods, biting her lip and accidentally licking off some of the glitter from her lip gloss. "The weirdest thing," she confirms. "Will was just coming back from the gym... I was just about to go in, but I got startled by Lesnar storming out from the showers. All I could do was watch as Lesnar grabbed onto Will... And he didn't even do anything to provoke him. Lesnar grabbed his throat, and said something like ' _you think you're all big, don't you? That someone like me can't hurt you?'_ Then he ripped at his hair and flared into his eyes and he told him... ' _I can. I can kill you.'_ After all that he just... Shoved Will into the wall before walking off. He fell so hard that he just slumped to the floor." Charlotte breathes shakily, a haunted look coming into her eyes. "I'd never seen Will so scared. _I_ never thought I'd be so scared of Lesnar. I mean, he's never been warm and fuzzy like Strowman, but I didn't think he'd have it in him to obliterate someone."

With a sharp whistle, Bálor averts his eyes towards the ceiling. "He doesn't; that's the thing," he says. "It's gotta be something he's done to alter the way he's thinking. Ask any of the guys: Lesnar wouldn't do that on his own accord. It's like he's not him."

As if their table is being watched, by Paul Heyman or Vince McMahon or even Lesnar himself, Charlotte briefly looks over her shoulder, then at the surrounding people in the restaurant. Seeing as the coast is clear, she leans into Bálor and Reigns. "I know it might be a bit of an extreme suggestion," she whispers. "But do either of you think it could be due to drugs?"

Enlightened, Bálor nods. "That adds everything up," he says. "Drugs alter behavior pretty bad. We just gotta figure out what sort of drug would do something like that."

Reigns, giving the menu one last scan before making his final decision on what he wants, looks up at them both. "Good point. We'll have to look into it." He lounges back in his chair. "But let's do ourselves a favor. It's the weekend; we deserve to relax a few days."

Charlotte giggles. "Hey, where are the others, by the way?" she asks. "Y'know, Styles and Strowman and Will?"

Bálor shrugs with a soft smile. "Who knows?" he replies. "They've probably got their weekend plans going on. Relaxing with a nice bottle of champagne and a Marvel movie, I'll bet. There is that big match on Sunday they've gotta prepare for, after all."


	7. Chapter 7: One and Only Warning

Chapter 7: One and Only Warning

"Well, well. What do we have here? Looks like a trio of sorry asses snooping in business that's gonna get someone in deep shit."

No one moves.

Styles, Strowman and Big Cass are paralyzed in horror. All they can do is stare right back at their intruder... One of the only two people that have an actual reason to go in there.

Paul Heyman's just walked in to catch the three of them red-handed, digging through Brock Lesnar's duffle bag.

Smugly, Heyman paces over to Cass, still holding the glass vial of steroids in his hands, clutching it so hard his hands are shaking. In one swift movement, Heyman snatches the vial out of his palm, holding it right in front of his face. "What's this you have here, Mr. Morrissey?" he purrs. "Something that I believe belongs to my client, right? Sees that the three of you were sticking your noses into places they didn't belong in."

Cass says nothing. He simply stares at him, completely at a loss for an excuse.

Heyman simply slaps the bottle back into his hand. "Aha. That's what I thought. Nothing to defend yourself with, eh?"

Styles is the first to speak up, bulking himself up to show he's not intimidated. "Lesnar's been shooting up," he says firmly. "He's been shooting up steroids and that's why he beat the shit out of me. That's why he's acting the way he is. And you thought no one would find out."

Heyman just chuckles sinisterly. "That, Mr. Styles, is where you're wrong," he says. "Naturally, I knew someone in the WWE would find out. And, trust me, I was prepared for it. So while Lesnar might be shooting up steroids in your perspective, to anyone else, none of that could possibly be true. I rigged this to make sure Lesnar would look perfectly innocent to the public, and those who found out? Well, they'd regret that they'd ever found out."

Strowman narrows his eyes at him. "What the hell are you talking about?" he questions. "How is that supposed to make any sense?"

"Ah, Strowman. It makes plenty of sense," Heyman continues. "You remember, now, don't you? I told you and Bálor personally; I gave out one single warning to take your attention off of my client, and turn it to business that concerns you. If you took that warning to consideration, it would have ended there and we wouldn't be having this conversation." He shrugs. "But alas, it seems you chose to ignore it, and next thing you know, I find you rummaging through my client's personal belongings. And you lost the one chance I gave you to shape up. So now you face the consequences." Smiling smugly, he points to the top corner of the cabinets, opposite of where Cass found Lesnar's duffle bag. "You see that up there, boys? I figured it'd be smart to plant some sort of security camera there... Just in case someone decided to do a search for those steroids there."

The three superstars look to where Heyman points. Sure enough, there happens to be a video camera, sitting there nonchalantly, tiny red light flickering on and off occasionally. Styles swallows hard. Cass bites his lip and grips the vial in his hand a little harder, while Strowman winces like someone's winding up to punch him. All three of them know where Heyman is going with this.

"That camera there has been recording your actions," Heyman continues. "And I plan on using it against you three. Not to show that you were trespassing; that'd be petty, don't you agree?" He grins. "Rather, I think I might edit the footage a bit. Make people see what I want to see. And since you apparently plan to tell someone about Lesnar's enhancement usage, I'll just have to take the attention off of him. Put it somewhere else." With a mysterious look on his face, Heyman shrugs. "Who knows where I'll make everyone look instead? I mean, I have a lot of options." He nods towards Cass. "Mr. Morrissey here is clutching for dear life onto a vial of steroids, isn't he? Perhaps he's been going through a withdrawal... He's _very_ glad to see those drugs." He points back and forth between Styles and Strowman. "Mr. Styles here just can't stop looking into this bag, either. Happy to see those needles and drugs again, huh? Those drugs were making you very vicious in the ring when you had that match against Lesnar those few days ago. He was simply defending himself from your deadly actions, and _that's_ why he beat down on you so hard. And Mr. Strowman, you almost seem worried about all those drug tests in there, don't you? After using all those steroids, how are you supposed to piss clean for the real tests?" That evil grin comes back to Heyman's face. "The public is very gullible, boys. They'll hang on to anything you tell them."

Strowman just glares at him, slowly shaking his head. "Don't you even think about it, Heyman," he growls. "Don't you do it. I'm warning you."

Cass immediately perks up, shaking his head as well. "He can't do that!" he exasperatedly reassures Styles and Strowman. "He just can't! You can't doctor footage like that and expect people to think it's authentic!"

In response, Heyman laughs. "I _can't?"_ he taunts. "I'd like you boys to take a look at these pictures here. Just so you realize I absolutely won't stop at these videos to keep the cameras away from Lesnar. I could just keep going and going, if it came down to it."

Before anyone can say anything further, Heyman pulls out a thin stack of black-and-white photographs. And without a word, he goes through each one, nice and slow so everyone can take it what he made them look like.

The first is of Roman Reigns. To his friends here, it's clear he's receiving his flu shot in the picture; they know he got it because he had been really sick. However, the nurse — Stephen — had been cropped out of the picture... So had Dean Ambrose. The caption printed below reads, " _Dean Ambrose gives Roman Reigns his bi-weekly injection of steroids."_

The next picture directly follows: it's that of Reigns and Ambrose walking back to the athletic center that same night. They can tell because Reigns has a band-aid over his arm. Ambrose can be seen kicking that discarded needle aside. This one reads, " _Dean Ambrose rids of the evidence, in the attempt to detach himself from steroid usage."_

The last one Heyman possesses is of Finn Bálor. It looks as though their Irish friend is in the locker rooms at the gym, and he had a hella hardcore workout session. His face is red, sweat drenches his face and hair, and it dampens his gray tank top. He leans his head back on the wall he's sitting against, and his eyes are closed. Chances are, Bálor pulled something in his arm when he was lifting weights, because he holds onto his bicep gently, probably with an ice cube or something in his palm to soothe the ache. Though, that's not what Heyman's agents had to say about it. Rather, according to them, Bálor had been partaking in steroid usage, the caption of the photo reading, " _Finn Bálor caught before wrestling practice shooting up steroids. Note how he attempts to nurse the injection sight on his arm. Most likely had a slight overdose, given how much he is sweating, and how exhausted he looks."_

Worst part is, neither Ambrose, nor Reigns, nor Bálor are here to defend themselves.

Styles feels himself turning red. "You son of a bitch," he snarls at Heyman. "You are one big son of a bitch, Heyman, you know that? You're gonna regret this so much when Vince finds out what the hell you're doing."

Heyman just looks at him haughtily. "I'm not worried about it, Styles. 'Cause Vince _won't_ be finding out about this," he says. "I won't hold back on leaking these out, one by one; after trespassing and damaging personal property the way you did, you deserve to have your reputations ruined. While I'm doing that, you are to keep your mouth shut about what you found out about Lesnar in here. If I found out that a _single_ one of you peeped, I will send Lesnar out for you. He won't kill you, but you'll be wishing he did. Not only will your career get ruined, but so will your faces. Is that understood by all?"

Before they scurry out like mice that just saved their own lives from a hunting cat, Styles, Strowman and Cass agree to Heyman's terms. They promise they won't tell the higher-ups about what they learned.

They don't want their friends to get hurt.

Now no one has any idea how the hell they're supposed to put Lesnar in his place after finding out that bit of news.


	8. Chapter 8: Clean Catch

**Notice: Some parts of this chapter may be uncomfortable. You may skip to the next chapter if you're not feeling this one. So sorry! - Cass**

* * *

Chapter 8: Clean Sample

Saturday night. Approximately twenty-four hours from the Hell in a Cell match. And Heyman's got this concerning email.

Naturally, Lesnar's supposed to be involved in this match. But this email's from McMahon, and it could totally eliminate him from the match. It states that because Lesnar's past three drug tests failed, he's going to have to send in another urine sample before the match tomorrow. If it fails again, then he won't be able to compete in the match. And this all has to be done by 8am tomorrow.

Heyman knows that the last time Lesnar shot up was approximately five days ago. No doubt he'll fail again. But he's not going to let him fail - he's going into that match. He knows that he's desperate to beat the shit out of Strowman, Styles and Cass for finding out his secret, and having him nearly kill them will definitely be even further motivation to stay shut up.

Determined, Heyman went to Lesnar before he went to head down to the gym for a evening workout session, and told him what was up with the match. It was obvious that Lesnar was pissed as hell about it. _Way to totally put him at risk for not being able to compete. Probably get suspended again._

But Heyman knew there was a way around it. He didn't know what, but with Lesnar being as angry and as desperate as he is, he knew that he'd figure something clever out. Putting his hands on his shoulders, he told Lesnar, "We are going to make sure you pass that drug test. I guarantee. Do whatever you need to do to make yourself pass. I don't care what you do, or how bad it's considered. Do it."

Lesnar vowed that he would. No way in hell is he going to fail again.

It took a bit of time. It took a lot of brain power and violently bench-pressing, but Lesnar came up with an idea. It was _perfect._ There would be no way he would fail again if he did this. The higher-ups would never even know he was still shooting up at all.

After showering and getting everything he needs, Lesnar hung around in the locker room halls, waiting for an unsuspecting victim. It can't just be anyone... Definitely not someone who's going to fight back. That's the last thing he needs is someone fighting him on this. Someone who wouldn't have the balls to fight with him outside of the ring.

Lesnar finds himself standing in the hall, watching people and getting rather impatient for nearly fifteen minutes. But he breathes it off, tossing the cup in his hand up and down to keep himself occupied. _They'll come eventually. There's gotta be someone here._

And there is. Just the sort of person that Lesnar was looking for.

Tyler Breeze.

He's not with Fandango, either. If Fandango were with him, he might put up some sass, but because he isn't, Breeze will do whatever he wants him to do. Perfect.

Lesnar watches the thin, blonde male out of the corner of his eye, and allows him to walk on by. Before he's too far down the hall, Lesnar strikes. He snatches Breeze's ponytail, and yanks him backwards to slam against his shoulder.

Breeze lets out a yelp, frozen in shock. Lesnar, however, acts quickly; before Breeze can try to do any squirming, he locks his arm around his chest and holds him in a python-like grasp. It leaves the smaller wrestler nearly gasping for breath. Breeze then opens his mouth to scream for help, but Lesnar uses his other hand — the one not holding the cup and Breeze — to hold over his mouth... Tight.

Lesnar has him right where he wants him. He can tell — Breeze is shuddering, hyperventilating... Scared half to death _just_ from Lesnar capturing him.

"You stay shut up," Lesnar growls directly into Breeze's ear. "You are to keep your _goddamn mouth shut_ , is that understood? I will beat you 'til you're dead if you so much as _whimper_ , hear me? You will only be allowed to speak when you and I are _alone._ Yes?"

Terrified, Breeze nods hypnotically.

Letting go of Breeze's mouth, Lesnar snatches his arm and drags him down the hall. Breeze hasn't the slightest clue where he's taking him... He doesn't know when Lesnar got to be so murderous, but he knows it couldn't possibly have anything to do with it... Could he? He hasn't had any matches with him at all, they don't talk, have barely any connections.

So what the hell does Lesnar want from him?

After struggling to keep up with Lesnar, nearly tripping over both Lesnar's feet and his own, he finds their destination is the bathroom.

 _The hell?_ Breeze panics. _This is all kinds of wrong already and he hasn't even explained himself!_

Lesnar briefly checks to make sure the bathroom is totally empty except for the two of them... And it is. He can do whatever he needs to, and no one will know.

Now that they're here, Lesnar lets go of Breeze, but he doesn't let him get very far. Breeze takes a few steps back from him, holding his hands up in defense. Even still, just to hammer in that he's the boss here, Lesnar dashes Breeze across the face with a fist, knocking him to the floor.

Breeze squeals, making no effort to get up or even fight back, just as Lesnar knew he wouldn't. Sorely, Breeze reaches up to his throbbing face, and nurses the black and blue bruise that's beginning to form over his cheek and nose.

" _Wh-why?"_ is all Breeze can manage as a few tears stream down his face. He avoids making eye contact with Lesnar, not wanting to see his reaction to the tears.

Even still, Lesnar draws no attention to it. He simply grunts, and throws the cup into Breeze's lap. "See that?" he says, clearly unamused. "Piss in it."

Confused, Breeze knits his brows, gaze still aimed at the floor to keep from having to look at Lesnar. " _Piss_ in— what the hell?" he questions.

Lesnar, now beginning to become aggravated with the questions, grabs a handful of Breeze's blonde locks, and yanks him back up to his feet. Breeze has no choice to comply, cup still in his hands as he gasps in pain.

"You heard me. _Piss in the damn cup,"_ he threatens. "I ain't failing another drug test because you won't give me a clean sample to give 'em." Lesnar then gives Breeze a shove into one of the stalls, and pulls the door shut on him. "You're not coming out until you do. I've got all night, dude."

Breeze takes in a few shaking breaths as he stands in front of the toilet, trying to calm himself down. _Alright... Alright, this is super illegal,_ he panics inwardly. _But I'm here until I do it... Whatever, I guess. There's a door between me and him. Dammit, this is so stupid. I don't even_ need _to pee! I can't believe I'm really doing this._

Figuring that just going along with what Lesnar wants is his ticket to leave and forget all this, Breeze just decides to do it. Sighing heavily and wiping his tears one more time, he unbuttons, unzips, and pulls down his jeans... Followed by his briefs. He uses the alcohol wipe to clean himself up so no germs get into the sample, then he places the cup under himself.

And the waiting ensues

* * *

It's been nearly two and a half hours since Lesnar kicked Breeze in the bathroom stall.

Two and a half hours and Breeze has still yet to pee, even just a little.

Breeze is just frustrated now. This has to be just about the dumbest thing he's ever had to do. What the hell other superstars have been forced to pee in a fucking cup for someone else? It isn't even like he really has a choice, either; Lesnar's standing outside of the stall door, so it isn't like Breeze can just quietly leave while Lesnar has no idea.

He's clearly just as tired of waiting for Breeze to do his job as well. Clearing his throat, he voices over the stall, "The hell is going on in there? I don't hear much happening."

Breeze lets out a choked sob, nearly having to force his voice out to speak. "I-I'm trying..." he insists, voice weak as he expected it to be. "L-Lesnar, this is so damn stupid."

Lesnar snorts. "Hm. Yeah, stupid until you find yourself half-dead because I failed the drug test for the _fourth time,_ and it's because your bladder sucks," he mutters. "Christ, I thought you were gonna piss your pants when I had you in the hall. Now you've got nothin' at all suddenly." He leans his weight against the stall door to give his tired legs a rest. "Like I said, Breeze. Faster you just do it, faster I let you out. You wanna stand in there until the test is due? Not my problem."

Breeze uses his free hand to wipe the tears from his face, breathing deeply and doing everything he can to concentrate. _God, we're gonna be standing here until the test is due. I_ can't do it. _I'm not gonna be able to force myself to just go..._ He swallows hard, shaking his head and clearing his throat. He has to. Lesnar's gonna be bullshit if he doesn't get his clean sample. He'll have to force it if he plans on keeping his life.

Within a few minutes of hard concentrating and tensing his muscles, Breeze feels something. _Thank God, about time._ Once he has the feeling, he focuses harder on forcing himself to pee... Soon as he goes, Lesnar's off his tail. He has what he wants.

When Breeze finally has a leak, he sighs softly. It's done, it's over with. But somehow, even after being able to finally urinate and satisfy Lesnar doesn't relieve Breeze. Rather, he just feels guilty. He's peeing in a cup to give McMahon a clean, healthy sample... Makes it look like Lesnar hasn't been using steroids. Dammit, what if McMahon found out it was really _his_ pee? Willing to do it or not, Breeze would find himself blacklisted from doing any other sort of job... He'd be on the streets.

Ah, whatever. It's not like Lesnar's gonna let him find out; this affects him, too, after all. Besides, he'll probably only have Breeze do it just this once... Won't he?

Knowing that Breeze did what was asked of him, Lesnar nods to himself in approval. "Done?" he calls over the stall.

Breeze sniffles, capping the cup that he managed to fill halfway, and setting it aside while he starts pulling his boxers and jeans back up. "Y-yeah..."

Lesnar answers with an audible "hmph," stepping back so Breeze can leave the stall. "Zip up and come out," he says.

Breeze takes his time doing that, then grabs the cup and steps out from the stall, guard high in case Lesnar's aggression comes back.

Though, Lesnar just holds out his hand. "Lemme see," he says.

Keeping his distance, Breeze places the cup in Lesnar's hand. All he can do is swallow hard, watching warily as Lesnar silently examines the sample he just gave him. Thankfully, it seems to be good enough. "Yep. You're good," he says.

Breeze takes that as an invitation to _get the fuck out._ Gasping softly, he begins to scurry out of the bathroom, and away from Lesnar before something else can happen. But just as he slips by, Lesnar grabs him by the shirt collar, pulling him in close to his face as he glares straight into his soul. Breeze grimaces, anticipating another blow to the face.

"Listen here to me, Breeze," Lesnar growls, voice low and threatening. "They're gonna keep asking for samples of my piss 一 after three fails, they get suspicious, and they're gonna wanna make sure I haven't gone back to using steroids. Truth is, I never stopped. So, when they need me to piss, you're gonna be the one pissing in the cup _whenever I ask._ Is that understood?" He moves from grasping onto Breeze's tee, to snatching a handful of his hair. "If you refuse, or you tell, you're gonna be wishing you were dead. And if that doesn't phase you? It'll be Fandango whose spine I break."

Beginning to tremble and feeling the urine start to quickly build back up in his bladder, Breeze nods. "Y-yes, Lesnar," he says meekly.

Lesnar huffs, shoving Breeze against the bathroom wall, where he lands on the back of his neck with a yelp. His vision blurs again with tears as he helplessly watches Lesnar collect his sample, and wash his hands. This is really happening.

So now Breeze is Lesnar's _drug dog._ He's part of this illegal business that's keeping Lesnar 一 jacked on steroids 一 in the WWE... If the other guys found out he was helping Lesnar, they'd kill him. Literally, perhaps. And it makes Breeze sick to the stomach that he has no choice to do it... Not only will Lesnar hurt him, but he'll go after Fandango, too.

He has to do it for his brother.

Clearing his throat, Lesnar dries his hands off with a few paper towels, then turns to leave. "Hey," he calls to Breeze over his shoulder. "Whenever you're done there, wash your hands before you leave. Nasty."


	9. Chapter 9: Breezey

Chapter 9: Breezey

When Fandango picks Tyler Breeze up from practice, he knows there's something really wrong with his best bud. His blonde hair is a mop, matted down and frizzed up in some places... Breeze always has soft, silky locks tied neatly into a ponytail or tucked delicately behind his ears. And the bruise... There's a really big, purple bruise on the left side of his face. Breeze can try to hide it with the hood of his red sweatshirt, but Fandango can clearly see it.

Seeing Breeze's painfully straight face, Fandango tries to smile to get him to lighten up a bit. "Hey, man," he says.

Breeze smiles half heartedly as he pulls himself into the passenger seat of his red Ferrari. "Hi," he mutters.

Fandango just watches him stare out the windshield mirror. He's not happy, or asking what strip mall they're hitting up after tonight's practice. It's really unlike him... Something had to have happened to make him this damp.

"How'd practice go on your end?" Fandango asks him, wondering if he got into a spat with someone, and that's why he's acting so down.

Breeze doesn't look at him. "Fine."

Fandango sits forward to look at Breeze's face, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You okay, man?" he asks.

Breeze sighs heavily, nodding, turning away from him.

 _This isn't right... He doesn't even act this way when he gets in a fight with someone._ "You sure?" Fandango tries again. "You're really quiet." He tries to wrap an arm around Breeze's shoulders so he'll lean against him... He always does when he's feeling upset. But Breeze doesn't budge 一 he's stiff.

"'M fine," Breeze insists.

Fandango sighs, starting the heat in the car. "Alright. Sure thing," he says. "You wanna... Grab drinks or something? Go out to the mall after that? I know that makes you forget everything that's bothering you when you're stressing out over what style jeans go with your tee."

Uncharacteristically, Breeze shakes his head. "No," he says, voice low to a whisper. "I'm tired. I just wanna go back to the hotel tonight."

At this point, Fandango can't ignore it anymore. This isn't the sassy, happy-go-lucky Tyler Breeze Fandango knows so well. Looking for new jeans is always the solution to everything with Breeze, no matter how awful the fight was. Fandango shakes his head, sighing heavily. "Alright, Ty, what is wrong?" he asks firmly, letting his best friend know that he can't hide anything. Fandango reaches over and pulls the hood from Breeze's head to reveal his battered up face. "Your hair is a mess, and I know you _always_ brush it after practice. And what the hell is that bruise on your face? It's like that fight Styles had against Lesnar all over again." He grabs Breeze's shoulders and forces him to look right into his eyes. "Please, Ty-Ty. Please, there's something wrong with you, and it's so unlike you not to tell me. You're kind of scaring me, dude."

In a sudden burst of anger, Breeze shoves Fandango off of him, nearly collapsing him against the window. "Shut the hell up, Curtiss!" he cries, tears coming to his eyes as his lip puckers. "I told you, I'm fine! Nothing's wrong, okay?" He pulls his hood back over his head, hiding his hair, then rests against the window to hide his bruised face, staring out as tears run down his cheeks. "Just go back to the hotel. I'm tired. I wanna go to bed."

Feeling his heart break knowing that it's so bad Breeze won't budge, Fandango gets the car started and drives to the hotel so Breeze can turn in for the night.

Who is this? And who took his Breezey?


	10. Chapter 10: Not Worth It

Chapter 10: Not Worth It

It happened.

Lesnar turned in the sample they needed to conduct the drug test.

The office tested Lesnar's urine... More precisely, they tested _Tyler Breeze's_ urine, and made sure it was clean, and there hasn't been a use of steroids.

And it was clean, of course, for Tyler Breeze hadn't been using steroids.

Though, to the office, it looked like Lesnar was the clean one.

Because Lesnar's apparently clean, he is allowed to compete in the Hell in a Cell match tonight.

He plans on giving Strowman, Styles and Cass hell... And roughing Breeze up another good time, just to really hammer in how much trouble he'll be in if he slips up. Perhaps he'll give the others a good kick in the nuts, just to foreshadow that there's something coming for them... Something worse than they expect.

At the start of the event, Ambrose, Shane McMahon, Fandango, and Lesnar's four victims wait backstage for their entrance. The three of them are pumped up, ready for a good match tonight; the anxiety gets their hearts racing so they're ready to fight. With no idea what's going on in the background of it all, they have no fear of the forthcoming fight.

Strowman, Styles, Cass and Breeze are feeling anxiety too. However, it's not that excited adrenaline the others are getting. They're _really_ anxious. Scared, even. Every so often, they look around backstage, seeing as one of their opponents is missing: Lesnar. Where the hell is he? Probably hiding someone... He could totally jump the hell out of nowhere and kill them if he wanted to. He probably _does_ want to... After finding out his secret, there's no doubt he wants them dead to keep it from spreading throughout the entire WWE Universe.

The four of them stand extremely still, except for the occasional scan of the eyes, or maybe bracing themself while they look over their shoulder to make sure Lesnar really isn't there. Styles, Strowman and Cass also notice that Tyler Breeze has a section of blonde locks styled to cover his left eye... They don't question it, but they have a feeling he ran into Lesnar, just as they ran into Heyman.

Dammit, if there was a way out of it, they'd take it immediately.

But they hear JoJo Offerman's announcement of the event, and they've no choice to go ahead: "Ladies and gentleman, the following contest is a Hell in a Cell match for the chance at the Universal Championship!"

Each superstar walks down the ramp and into the steel cage, where they'll undeniably meet their death if they come into contact with Lesnar. Oblivious, Fandango, Ambrose and McMahon are loose and ready to go, like it's any other match with any other superstars. Everyone else, however, is totally stiff... The cheering of the surrounding WWE Universe sounds like the horrid screaming of prisoners... And the steel cage is their personal trap in Hell. Breeze even retreats to the corner of the cage, crossing his arms tight in front of his chest and shivering.

It feels like a totally different planet.

The arena nearly transforms to Hell when they hear Lesnar beginning to enter... _Next Big Thing_ blares over the speakers, and everything falls apart right in front of them. In front of the entire WWE Universe, who the superstars love, and would never want to disappoint.

But in this moment, a bit of a disappointing match seems like the better option than having their skulls bashed to bits by Lesnar.

The second Breeze sees the mere shadow of Lesnar beginning to come onto the stage, he loses it. He begins to hyperventilate, breaking down in a panic attack as he begins to cry, his bodily quaking becoming ten times worse than it was earlier.

Everyone looks towards Breeze to see what's the matter. McMahon, Fandango and Ambrose are worried, completely unsure by what's suddenly made him start panicking this uncharacteristically.

"Hey, Ty-Ty, what's the matter?" Fandango asks softly, knowing this is probably connected to what was bothering him the other day at practice. "Everything okay dude? Is this about the other day?"

Ambrose takes a step towards him. "Everything's alright, man," he reassures him. "It's just like any other match. Are you hurt or something?"

The pressure makes Breeze cry out helplessly, beginning to bawl in fear. "I can't do it!" he cries out. "I can't make myself do this, I'll get killed!"

No other questions asked, he pushes past Fandango and Ambrose, and bolts out of the ring. But instead of running to go backstage to the dressing rooms, he makes a break for the Emergency Exit.

"Hey!" McMahon tries calls after him. "Hey, it's okay! You can tell us if something's bothering you, man. What do you mean 'you'll get killed?'"

But he doesn't get an answer from Breeze... He's already far out of earshot.

Even Lesnar notices something off about the scene, pausing in confusion in the middle of the ramp.

Oddly enough, Strowman, Styles and Cass break into a panic attack of their own. Tears run down Strowman's face... Cass begins hyperventilating and pulling his hair out of its ponytail, a complete expression of terror replacing his stone-faced one. Styles becomes choked up, taking off his gloves and desperately clawing at his neck, leaving long, pink marks behind.

"He's right," Strowman tells them, voice strained and choked out. "It's not worth it. Not worth getting killed..."

McMahon, confused, shakes his head, just plain concerned now. "What does that mean, guys?" he asks. "Is there something going on? I can tell my father about it if there's something dangerous."

Cass squeezes his eyes shut, swallowing air and struggling to keep his own tears in. "We can't!" he cries. "We can't... You'll die too. Just being near us could get you killed."

Styles lets out a sob, burying his fingers in his hair and beginning to cry just as hard as Breeze had been. "We gotta go," he sobs. "We can't do it... We just can't."

With that, the three of them run out of the ring too, and towards the same exit that Breeze left out of. And not one of them looks back.

Fandango knits his eyebrows. "You guys too?" he questions. "What is going on here?"

And just like that, the music shuts off, and the whole audience begins to murmur with confusion. Even the announcers seem to be baffled by everyone just up and walking out like that.

"What? Where are they going?" Corey Graves asks the others. "Is this supposed to be happening?"

"I didn't hear about any sort of strike," Byron Saxton tries to lighten things up. "Maybe we were left out?"

Reneé Young, too confused to try to keep it all in good spirits, shakes her head, staring at the screen. "No. No, they wouldn't just run off like that," she tells her coworkers more than she explains to the audience. Sitting up, she points in the direction of the screen. "Look. Shane McMahon, Dean Ambrose, and Fandango have no idea what's wrong. This _isn't_ staged."

Finally, Saxton notices what's going on, and gives up the act. "You're right," he says. "Something's actually wrong here."


End file.
